


notes from new york

by toddxnderson



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, New York City, Post-Canon, also time isnt real in this fic dont worry about it, hodgepodge of random references, im gay so its richard siken hamlet and emily dickinson, they ran away to new york Actually i dont know what ur talking about, they’re soft and in love baby, this is literally just todd simping over neil and living it up, tinged with angst, todd is a simp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toddxnderson/pseuds/toddxnderson
Summary: it’s been two years since neil left the gun in the desk and ran away with todd to new york. he’s a rising star in the acting industry, todd’s an aspiring playwright, and together, just maybe, they’ve found home.
Relationships: Todd Anderson/Neil Perry
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	notes from new york

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reneewalkerr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reneewalkerr/gifts).



> here is my offering for the valentines day fic exchange! this was absolutely delightful to write and i hope u enjoy lucy! i have to apologise bc i am terrible at writing established relationships (totally not because I have never been in one. not at all absolutely not) but i tried!! also it may be a little angsty IM SO SORRY ITS DRILLED INTO MY BONES
> 
> also quick disclaimer i have never been to new york or anywhere else in america so this is entirely guesswork i am so sorry

_we are all going forward. none of us are going back._

_\- richard siken, snow and dirty rain_

Todd had never known a place like New York.

He was used to the deep, snowy recesses of rural Vermont, the smug politeness and trivial politics of its residents. He knew about steady rolling fields the same colour as his mother’s velvet dress, and trees that shed like rain in autumn, and the way thick, blinding white settled over the world when it was least expected. As much as he had hated that old half-life, it had been all he’d been aware of; everything else seemed like a hazy faraway fantasy. The few times he’d been on holiday as a child it had felt fuzzy and distant, a blur of heat and long highways. All that had been real to him was wide empty space, seasons making the landscape their own, and pitch black twilights.

New York was different. 

It was pretty, sure, but noisy and dirty, too. The crowds were nightmarish. Lights winked at him through the thin curtains all the way past midnight and into the early hours of the morning, the screech of sirens from the dark veins of streets below drilling their way into his brain. Success was hard-won and the days felt brittle, like they were on the verge of cracking. 

But he had Neil. 

That was the thing- Neil was always standing just metres behind him ready to extend an arm out if he should stumble, eyes soft like the light had made a home in him already. A warm weight in the bed beside him. A kind word. A note on the counter with a smiley face doodled in the top corner. 

Todd honestly wasn’t sure how he’d survived this long without him.

Even as a child, he’d always felt a little out of it, a little chipped and empty, like a space was waiting to be filled, like a tear in the very fabric of his heart was waiting to be sewn up. He’d come close before, watching Neil laughing at another Poet’s joke, spilling his thoughts into a classroom of his peers, running through the snow that pitch black night they had escaped Welton forever. But these days in New York, these long and aimless hours, he was certain he’d never felt closer to completeness. Neil was worth a thousand of his parents, of Jeffrey- the thought was tinged with guilt, but he knew it was true. He’d made up for seventeen years of cold respect in twenty-six months of a sunny one-bedroom with a boy he’d known for a term. 

It was silly, but he couldn’t help but think of Neil as his muse. Every play he wrote had a particular face staring back as the male lead, every line seemed to speak with a familiar warm inflection. He hadn’t even known _how_ to write plays until Neil had shown him, leaning over his shoulder and carefully explaining the theatrical terms in his gentlest tone, guiding him across the page with a smile, turning the words into a pathway between the autumn trees at Welton. Even when Neil was no longer beside him, trapped at rehearsals or sweating in the kitchen of the upscale restaurant five blocks away, Todd still saw him in the pages he churned out, laughing a few feet ahead of him and crunching through the amber leaves. 

~

The days Neil had a show were always bittersweet. 

Todd couldn’t see them all, of course. Tickets weren’t free, even for the boyfriends of the actors, though Neil was sure to make a remarkably strong case to each director he had. They made do with opening and closing night, as well as the occasional show in the middle of longer runs, and it was always a delight to surprise Neil by popping up in the crowd when he was least expected. He could always tell the exact moment he was spotted, too- whatever character Neil was playing slipped, just for a second, and he froze, eyes wide, smiling. 

Todd never got over it. Never got over the fact that Neil was real, and alive, and more than anything that he loved him back. 

Opening nights were perhaps just as good, however, and this opening night more so than any. Neil had made no secret of how much this show meant to him, and Todd was aware that it was the sort of role that made or destroyed a star. Not many could play Hamlet the right way, much less young actors, and the fact he’d even been considered was impressive enough. He barely scraped nineteen. Another stupid miracle. 

If anyone could pull it off, it was Neil. 

This particular show was exciting in other ways, too; the director was well respected within the industry and saw Neil as a pet project of his- after this job, more would surely follow. They’d discussed it a lot together, late at night, debated the merits of theatre acting versus other media. Neil had talked about going into film, eventually, though he balked at the idea of TV shows. 

_“I’m happy here in New York, with you. What more could I want? Months of filming in trailers in the middle of nowhere, year after year? Why would I?”_

Knowing all this didn’t make it any easier to watch him walk out the door, headed to catch the subway to the theatre. He looked unfairly beautiful. 

He kissed Todd on the cheek, which still flustered them both. 

“Be safe.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Todd. Love you.”

For a long time after the door clicked shut, Todd stared at his typewriter and tried to think of something to put down onto the paper. His half-finished play glared up at him from the desk, the second draft of his second foray into theatre, but the words had come to a standstill. The knot of anxiety that always threaded in his chest on Neil’s opening nights was making it impossible to concentrate. 

_Your agent is expecting this draft in a month,_ he chided himself. _You really ought to write something._

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he rose and moved towards the tiny strip of balcony that overlooked the street. It was grimy and ancient and probably deeply unsafe, but he poked his head out across it and gazed down at the city lights as they illuminated the growing dusk, winking at passers-by. 

Nowhere could be so unlike Welton. That had depressed him at first, had made him ache for the way nature seeped into everything, for the wide open space and prim old buildings. He missed Charlie and Knox and Meeks and Pitts and Keating and everyone, study group and society meetings in the cave and sometimes even his parents. If their new life was to work, it would be a long time before he could see any of them again. 

But the city grew on him, slowly but surely. He liked the grid structure of it, the way it all made sense. He liked his agent and the casual mundanity of his part-time job, liked his writing and the way he could see a path for himself, a way up the ladder to true success.

Nowhere could be so unlike Welton. Nowhere could be a better fresh start. 

~

Todd never got tired of seeing Neil acting. 

In daylight, of course, he was nothing short of perfect, but the stage lights illuminated something slightly different, something perhaps a little darker and looser, a wilder kind of freedom. He was chameleonic. Todd knew that, personal bias aside, Neil was quite possibly one of the best actors of the generation. The newspapers agreed. Each show he’d been in thus far had been a success, and each had been accompanied by rave reviews of the mysterious new talent who had burst onto the scene from absolutely nowhere, dazzling audiences and critics alike. 

The _nowhere_ part always grated at Todd. He knew full well that Neil hadn’t magically achieved talent and fame, hadn’t become a rising star out of the blue. He’d worked for it, day and night, taking every audition he could find and grabbing shifts at all hours to cover the expenses. He’d practiced in the mirror every night for weeks, performed every monologue under the sun for Todd, and the day he’d landed his first role he’d cried so hard he’d disturbed the pigeons outside. 

He’d achieved his dream, despite everything. His father had been wrong. 

Despite knowing how truly brilliant Neil was, it always caught him a little by surprise to see him up there, in front of the world, throwing his talent across the stage and yelling into the pitch black of the auditorium. It was a privilege to watch him melt into somebody else, for their soul to take up in his body for an hour or two. 

And God, he’d never seen anybody act the way Neil did as Hamlet. 

The tragedy tinged with madness seemed to sink over him, to consume him, and the way he veered across the stage, spilling a monologue like pure water from his mouth, he was almost terrifying. The audience was rapt. Todd felt as though his arms were glued to the seat of the chair, that his eyes were fixed to the stage, and to move them would be as good as treason. 

“To be, or not to be. That is the question.” 

The words fell over the theatre like a shadow. Neil was alone at the centre of the stage, standing in a pinprick of light amidst utter darkness, gazing out at the silent rows of people. 

Time seemed to freeze in the instant before he spoke again and Todd felt like the nervous seventeen year old he’d been at another Shakespeare all that time ago, like the boy he’d left behind at Welton. To be or not to be; to run or to stay. He often found himself wondering what would have happened had Neil not packed a bag and fled that night after the show, how their story would have ended. 

Somehow, despite the pitch black, Neil’s eyes found Todd’s, and he could tell he was thinking the same. 

As he often did, Todd found himself without the words he wanted to say. _I’m glad you left when you did. I’m glad you showed up outside my window with tears in your eyes and begged me to run away with you._

_I’m glad I said yes._

Somehow, he was certain that Neil understood. 

~

People external to the cast weren’t really supposed to visit the dressing rooms, but most turned a blind eye on opening nights, and Todd managed to slip backstage unchallenged. He was beginning to search the doors for Neil’s name in vain hope, but a click resounded from the end of the corridor, followed by footsteps. 

“Todd!”

He had freed himself from his period costume and was grinning ear to ear, arms outstretched. They collided in a hug. Todd could feel the other boy’s heart beating away in his chest. 

“You were- Christ, Neil, you were brilliant.”

Neil’s smile wavered in disbelief. “Really?”

“Of course! You were... that was your best performance yet. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Something like a laugh bubbled out of Neil’s throat. There was a fleck of stage blood on the tip of his nose. Todd wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone so perfect. 

Neil seized his hand. He was bright with energy, the post-show thrill radiant across his face. 

“Let’s go home.”

They walked back through the noisy bustle of lights and sounds and smells, the sky overhead the colour of ink. Neil’s arm was threaded through Todd’s, warm through the thick skin of his jacket. They spoke quietly, heads bent together, as they always seemed to do, no matter their environment; they spoke of films they wanted to see and recipes Neil wanted to try and how Knox was once again planning to drop out of law school. How they really should have Charlie round to visit soon. Todd lost sight of where his hand ended and Neil’s began.

The takeaway restaurant beside their apartment screamed in neon so bright it hurt his eyes. They climbed the stairs in tandem, unintentionally falling into step the way Keating had always warned them to avoid. Neil muttered a quiet joke about it; Todd laughed like a child.

As Neil disappeared to wash and change, Todd stared at his typewriter again. Maybe he would write something after all. Another scene. An ending, perhaps. So far his play was slated as a tragedy, Shakespeare-style: the lovers missing each other at the last moment and hurtling into misfortune and death. He glanced over his notes, but it all seemed unnecessarily harsh, another pointless bit of misery with no real moral, no silver lining to the disaster. 

He was still frowning over his outline when Neil emerged from the bedroom, hair messy and glasses askew. 

“Todd, you haven’t seen my book, have you?”

“Which one?”

“The one with the-” He gestured hopelessly. “Oh, you know. Blue cover. Sort of thick. Ah! There it is.”

He snatched it up from the kitchen table, then shot Todd a smile the colour of the sun. 

Todd watched the empty space in the doorway for a long time after he had left it, something strange twisting in his throat. He couldn’t quite believe that this was his reality; a career in writing, the city of dreams, a boyfriend who could make him feel whole with a glance.

Maybe he owed it to fate to pass on the luck, even to someone fictional. 

He sat down and began to type.

Neil was already sleeping by the time Todd was finished.

He was slumped in bed with his book clasped between his fingers, round tortoiseshell glasses pressing into his cheek. He was smiling. 

Todd removed the glasses and set them on the nightstand, carefully extracted the book; the poems of Emily Dickinson, a congratulatory gift from Keating. The page was bookmarked by Neil’s thumb, and Todd glanced inside- the lines were painstakingly annotated in blunt pencil, scribbles in the margins and little rhetorical questions and notes on metaphor and sibilance. One poem in particular was underlined, all three verses, and he paused to read it. 

_ “Hope” is the thing with feathers - _  
_ That perches in the soul - _  
_ And sings the tune without the words - _  
_ And never stops - at all - _

_ And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - _  
_ And sore must be the storm - _  
_ That could abash the little Bird  _  
_ That kept so many warm - _

_ I’ve heard it in the chillest land - _  
_ And on the strangest Sea - _  
_ Yet - never - in Extremity,  _  
_ It asked a crumb - of me.  _

And beside it, barely legible in fuzzy grey pencil, was a single annotation: 

_Todd._

A small sob caught in his throat. 

He knew Neil loved him, of course he did; but the idea that he loved him with the same ferocity and completeness that Todd loved him back felt almost unthinkable, another impossibility.

The world narrowed down to the two of them in that bedroom with the lights and cars rushing by, the dusty wind slapping the glass windows and the pale curtains fluttering in the air like ghosts. Todd clambered into bed beside Neil, fully dressed, and gazed at his sleeping face. It seemed impossible. They’d made it out. They were alive, and in love, despite it all. 

He took his hand under the bedsheets, smooth and slick with sweat, and remembered clasping it another time, worlds away; Neil’s hand beneath his in the woods, tugging him along with that certainty Todd had always envied, and the crunch of the freshly fallen snow sounding muffled in the night air. The burnt yellow lights of the train station up ahead, waiting to take them somewhere foreign and terrifying. And Neil’s hand, his anchor. Neil’s hand, tugging him gently into a new life. 

Todd stared up at the dark ceiling, watching the streetlights flicker across it, and thought about home. 

How it was here, despite everything. How they’d built themselves, from nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u so much for reading! i hope u enjoyed & u can find me on twitter @toddxnderson <3


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